


Into the Fog

by townshend



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townshend/pseuds/townshend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James doesn't know how to move on from life after Silent Hill - Mary told him to live, but how could he? He'd gone through hell, and worse, he was alone - there couldn't possibly be anyone else on the planet who could understand. Could there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Fog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pyramidhead404](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pyramidhead404).



> This was written for pyramidhead404 @ silentsanta on LJ. I'm not honestly typically interested in this pairing - I always wondered how, exactly, people made it work, but I've never really read any to try and find out. This is my exploration into how, exactly, I would make it work.

James Sunderland had been driving since he was fifteen years old. It had always been a symbol of freedom to him. Freedom to get away from his little town and see the sights. Freedom to go see a movie, to go into the next city over, to just drive and be alone with his thoughts. It had grown into something so familiar over the years that it almost stopped being therapeutic -- it was just something he had to do, as normal as showering or brushing his teeth. As driving became more and more automatic, more something no longer requiring thought, James realized in doing so he had more and more time to think. And sometimes being left alone with his thoughts was detrimental.

The drive back home from Silent Hill was going to be a long one. James lived in the very tip of Maine, almost crossing into New Hampshire, and Silent Hill was pretty far north, so far it wasn't even on I-95 anymore. The trip up, he thought, had taken about five to six hours, and the whole time, his thoughts had been on Mary, and seeing her again. Had he really been so naive? Had he really _forgotten_?

But no -- he couldn't beat himself up over it. He couldn't. Mary had said it was enough. And it was. He had to start a new life, start over, start something he could be proud of. He had a second chance, didn't he?

He tried to keep his thoughts on that during the drive home -- out of the past and into the future. And keeping the radio cranked up helped that out a bit, but not much.

James stopped in Bangor for something to eat -- he wasn't hungry but he felt like he should go through the motions. It was when he was nearing Portland that he realized that he was low on gas, and he stopped at a small gas station and diner just outside the city limits to fill up. He was about to slip back into the car when he realized just how incredibly _tired_ he was.

Maybe a cup of coffee would help perk him back up.

James parked the old car and stepped into the diner. The bell on the door jingled, signaling his arrival, and a girl at the counter smiled.

"You can take a seat sir, and someone will come right to you." She handed him a menu.

"Thanks," James murmured with a nod, passing by her and going to the counter, taking a seat in the nearest bar stool. The bar was mostly full of people who looked like travelers -- a man in a trucker hat and a telltale flannel shirt sat at the end opposite James, eating a plate of eggs. A couple other guys sat between them, talking about football, the sports page of a newspaper sitting between them. And on James' opposite side, at the last seat at the counter, sat a man with a plate of poached eggs on toast who had a couple notebooks spread out. He was furiously writing in one. It looked like he'd been there for a while -- he had a few empty glasses around him. The eccentric type, James thought with a bit of amusement. The man must have noticed that James was watching him, because the quiet scritch-scritch of pencil on paper stopped suddenly and the man looked up, meeting James' gaze. At first, James expected to be told off, but instead, the man seemed to survey him for a long moment before suddenly speaking.

"You have blood on your jacket," he murmured, indicating a corner of James' jacket sleeve with a casual point of a finger, pencil still in hand. James looked down, suddenly, noticing his jacket was spotted with blood -- it wasn't very noticeable, except for the sleeve, thankfully, but the man had noticed just the same. James was about to open his mouth to reply, to say _something_ to his defense, but just at that moment, the waitress behind the counter turned her attention to him.

"Hey there!" she said, brightly, and the man with the pencil smiled a bit and turned back to his notebook. James frowned to himself as he turned his gaze to the waitress. She was filling his coffee cup, a big grin on her face. Somebody was definitely enthusiastic about their job. "What can I get for you this morning?"

Was it morning? James glanced down at his menu blankly.

"Uh," he murmured, "just a plate of toast is fine."

"You want some eggs with the toast?" she asked, and James hadn't been planning on it, but it sounded okay.

"Yeah, sure. Over easy's fine."

"Okay!" The waitress smiled. "Anything else to drink or just coffee?"

"Just coffee's fine." James handed his menu to the waitress, who took it under her arm, jotting his order down.

"I'll get that right out to you, sweetie," she said with a wink. She turned towards the mysterious man next to James. "Harry, honey, you gonna eat those eggs?"

"Hm?" The man -- apparently named Harry -- looked up from his notebook, then down to his plate. "Oh, yeah. Sorry, Clara, I forgot completely."

She sighed. "Lemme get you a new plate. You can't be eating cold eggs. It's just gross."

He laughed a little. "Alright, alright. You're too good to me."

She took the plate and walked off. Harry glanced up to James, managing a bit of a smile. "Just passing through?" he asked.

"Uh," James said, feeling completely awkward. It didn't help that he'd spent the last few days trapped in a nightmarish hell. He wasn't sure if he even could have a normal conversation with a normal person. "I... yeah, something like that. I came from... up north. Just heading back home to Kittery."

"Ah, you've still got about an hour, then," Harry remarked, setting his pencil down. He stretched, interlocking his fingers and pushing his arms out in front of him. "Be careful, it's icy out this time of year. Where'd you come from?"

James shifted a little in his chair. He felt uncomfortable to say it, but why should he? Silent Hill was a resort town. It wasn't like it was strange for people to go there. People came to Maine just to go to Silent Hill all the time.

"Ah, I spent a few days in Silent Hill," he said. He thought he saw Harry's eyes flash.

"Relaxing," Harry commented, though there was something a little... sharp in his tone. Was James imagining it? How much had he imagined the last week? A hand instinctively went to pat the left side of his jacket for Mary's letter -- the complete letter. It was still there. "I've been a couple times myself."

"Yeah," James murmured. "Same. But I don't think I'll be going back any time soon."

"Not what it used to be," Harry agreed, and there was a long, tense pause between them. Suddenly, Harry extended his hand. "I'm sorry. I never introduced myself. I'm Harry, Harry Mason."

James took his hand, shaking it. "James Sunderland," he murmured. Harry's name seemed to suddenly register with him, and his eyes lit up, darting to the notebooks Harry had spread out and then back to the man's face. "Are you... that writer?"

Harry looked surprised, and then genuinely embarrassed -- he turned back to his work, trying to shuffle his notebooks together. "Ah, well, yeah, I do some writing," he said. James instantly liked Harry a bit more -- a lot of people who were famous tried to play it off because it was the polite thing to do, even though they really liked the attention. Instead, James could tell Harry was actually genuinely not too proud of his work. "Not a bestseller, but... I'm actually pretty surprised you've heard of me."

"Well," James said, "my wife is a fan." He felt a pang in his stomach and quickly amended, "Was, was a fan." Harry's expression changed a bit into something rather unreadable and James continued, quickly, "She died... recently. From cancer. But she... really loved to read. And she loved your books. A-actually, when I first met her, she was reading that one... ah, with the little girl who goes missing--"

" _Walking on Thin Air_ ," Harry murmured, naming the book, and James nodded. "James, I... know it sounds trite, but I'm... sorry about your wife. I lost mine, too. About eight years ago."

James wanted to ask Harry if it got any easier, but he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. The tense silences between the two men seemed to just be growing in number, and James was only too grateful when the waitress returned, a plate in each hand -- one for Harry and one for James. She set them down in their respective places and turned to Harry, crossing arms over her chest.

"Now I'm not going to move from this space, Mr. Mason, until I see you take at least one bite from that toast," she warned, and Harry managed a smile -- James could tell it wasn't real, because it didn't quite reach his eyes -- and picked up a piece of toast with egg on top, taking a bite. He chewed and swallowed.

"It's very good," he said. "Honest. Thanks."

"Mmhmm." Clara turned, smiling, and walked off. James watched her go. He was pretty distracted until he heard Harry's voice.

"So, you drove all the way down here from Silent Hill? Pretty hard drive."

James picked up his fork, poking at the yolk of his eggs. It broke easily, spilling over the plate.

"Yeah," he murmured, picking up a slice of toast and poking at the yolk, dipping the toast in. "I, ah, didn't really realize what time it was when I left. I saw the sun come up but I..." he stopped himself, realizing how crazy he sounded. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Harry said, quietly. "To some people, Silent Hill isn't a very... nice place."

James' eyes locked with Harry's and for a moment he wanted to bolt out of the restaurant. He felt like Harry knew... something, something he shouldn't, like he could read the guilt in James' eyes, like he knew what had happened in that town. Ridiculous... there was no way... was there?

Eddie and Angela had been there... and even though... neither of them had been able to leave, couldn't... couldn't Harry have been there, too? Maybe James hadn't seen him... maybe Harry had left long before James... but the city had turned into something wrong, unholy, and if someone on the outside had seen it just like James had... maybe it meant it had all been real...

He felt for the letter in his jacket again, comforted by the sound of the crinkle the paper made when he touched it. That was all he needed. Of course it had been real. Of course.

James didn't reply to Harry. He took a bite from his toast, and then another, salting his eggs, downing his coffee, eating fast. He just wanted to pay and get out of there -- away from the writer Mary had liked so much, the man who talked about Silent Hill like he knew what James had been though. As if he could know anything.

Harry watched the way James downed his coffee, undisturbed by the fact that James was pointedly ignoring the last thing he'd said. Finally, he murmured, "You've probably been driving since two in the morning," he said. "And when was the last time you slept?"

"What's your point?" James asked, rather shortly. It sounded a little ruder than he'd meant, and he almost winced, but held strong. "You don't know me, so there's no reason for you to worry about me."

Harry raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "Alright then. I'll leave you alone." He turned back to his notebook, chewing idly on his breakfast and writing. Still, there was something decidedly harder about his features than there had been before, when James had first noticed him.

The waitress came back with James' check and he took it, gratefully, finishing his cup of coffee and standing. Without saying a word to Harry, James turned, check in hand, and began to approach the register. He was tired, he was worn out, he just wanted to go back to his lonely house and lay in the bed he'd shared with Mary and think about how he was supposed to move on, how he was supposed to fix his life. He didn't understand how he could ever do that. How could he let go of Mary? He'd loved her so much... she'd been... everything...

His vision suddenly went black -- James was aware of it for a second but he kept walking. He had to get out... it didn't matter if he...

Somehow, what he was thinking before didn't matter. His head was swimming, and he felt like he was falling -- he got his vision back for only a moment, grey and fuzzy, only long enough to wonder why the floor was getting so close before he hit and passed out.

\----------

When James woke up, he was lying in a bed. Luckily, his first thought wasn't a delusion -- he knew better than to think he was home. Instead, he worried someone had called an ambulance. After Mary, the last thing he needed was more hospital bills. He had enough debt as it was...

"Hey... uh, are you... coming to?"

It was a voice. A man's voice. James stirred, slowly forcing his eyes to open. When he did, he saw none other than the writer, Harry Mason, standing over him. James was curled up in a rather comfortable bed, and further survey made him realize it wasn't a hotel room -- it looked more like somebody's bedroom. Furthermore, someone (Harry?) had taken his jacket off, leaving him in his shirt and pants.

"Where am I?" James asked, groaning.

"My apartment." Harry slid a chair out from the desk beside his bed -- James noticed his jacket was hanging, folded, off the back -- and sat down. An actual look of _concern_ was painted over his features, and James felt... a million things at once. Guilt ( _why is he looking concerned over_ me _, I don't deserve it, I'm a_ killer), embarrassment ( _god I passed out and he just decided to take me home with him? I_ passed out _in front of all of those people?_ ), confusion ( _what am I even doing here? How could I let myself just pass out like that?_ ). Harry must have noticed the conflicting emotions passing across James' expressions, because he suddenly began to elaborate. "You passed out. I said I was going to take you to the hospital."

"But you didn't," James groaned, his eyes sliding shut and his head lolling back against the pillow.

"No." Harry paused, sounding unsure. James could tell Harry was trying to decide on his words. Shouldn't a writer be good at that kind of thing? "I didn't. Because... I know a hospital can't really help you with what you're going through."

James almost let out a humorless sort of laugh. His disillusionment with doctors and hospitals had already been present when he'd met Mary, for reasons unrelated, but after her illness -- after it had taken so long to find out what was happening to her, only to tell James there was nothing they could really do -- the feelings had multiplied tenfold. "And what am I going through?" he asked. His head was still fuzzy -- he didn't really understand what was happening. Had James been more alert, he might have known to be more on edge -- more considering of his earlier thoughts, the wary, almost frightened reaction he'd shaped to Harry's small comments -- ones that wouldn't be abnormal to a person who didn't know, who hadn't gone through that hell of a town, but to James...

"You're still suffering from the shock of what happened to you in Silent Hill," Harry murmured. "All the death, the killing." Harry did expound, but James didn't need him to. His chest seized up, and the first thing he could think was something probably a little irrational.

"Did you read the letter in my jacket?" he asked, defensively. Harry looked surprised, then frowned.

"No," he answered, honestly. "...I'm not your enemy, here, James." He stood, pushing the chair out a bit. "You need something to drink. There's tea on the stove or water, if you'd prefer."

"I don't need anything to drink!" James insisted. He sat up, staring at Harry, at the strange man he'd met only... well, as far as he remembered, twenty minutes ago in some crazy diner outside Portland. "I need you to explain to me... explain what the hell you're talking about to me!"

Harry had gotten as far as the doorway when James had begun shouting, and he stopped, looking at James carefully. The man looked a wreck.

"Really," he murmured, a weak sort of shrug passing across his shoulders, "isn't it obvious? It happened to me, too. I went to that town. Five years ago."

"Five years ago?" James repeated, slowly. That didn't make any sense at all. Hell, he and Mary had gone to Silent Hill on their honeymoon and that had been three years ago. And then town had been lovely then, completely perfect. So how could...? "That... can't be."

Harry rested against the door frame, his vision sliding just the smallest bit out of focus. "It was," he murmured. "Sometimes it's hard for me to believe, too. Sometimes it seems like it's been much longer. Sometimes I wake up and I feel like it was yesterday."

James stared down at his lap, eyes boring into the pattern of Harry's blanket. Was that how the memories of Silent Hill would be for him, soon? He knew what Harry meant, about how it could feel longer than it had been... hadn't even he convinced himself that Mary had been dead for three years? As if she'd died to him the day she'd gotten sick...

"You... lost somebody, too," James murmured, slowly. "Didn't you? I can... from your tone, I..."

He didn't look up to meet Harry's gaze. He didn't think he could. Instead, he listened intently to the sounds of Harry's clothes ruffling as the man shifted, uncomfortably, the noise sounding deafeningly loud in the silence of the room. Finally, Harry moved back inside, taking his chair, bent forward, his head inclined towards the floor, elbows balanced on knees, arms hanging.

"Five years ago, my daughter and I went to Silent Hill together," he said, quietly. "We were supposed to go on vacation. It was... early September. We were just outside the city limits when somebody -- a girl -- stepped out in front of my car, from... from _nowhere_. I jerked the wheel to keep from hitting her. We spun out of control and crashed. I... must have passed out. When I came to, she was gone. The passenger door was open and there was no sign of Cheryl anywhere."

James watched him now, intently, listening to the story. "So... you went into town to look for her?"

"Of course." Harry straightened, meeting James' gaze. "But when I got into town, it was abandoned. Deserted. It was like... the lost colony or something. Everybody, just gone. And there was this thick, heavy fog..."

"So thick you can't see anything in front of you," James said, suddenly. "Just shapes in the distance you're better off avoiding."

Harry let out a slow breath of air -- perhaps a sigh of defeat. James instantly felt some sort of pity for the man. He hadn't been called to Silent Hill because he'd done anything wrong. Not like him. Harry had been a stranger, someone who'd been pulled into the nightmare, maybe on accident. He didn't deserve it.

Could James even tell him his story, tell him the truth? There was no way... no way he could share it all.

"I got a letter," James murmured, "from Mary." He wasn't even entirely sure that was the truth, if he'd ever even gotten a letter at all -- but it was the only way to open this story, the only way he knew. "My wife. After she was... already dead. A damn letter saying she was... waiting for me. In our special place."

Giving Harry a wary glance, James tried to judge the man's reaction, testing the waters before he got any further. Harry looked like he was listening, like he _believed_ \-- the look of shock on his face was something more akin to worry and surprise than disbelief. "And you thought that would be Silent Hill?"

James nodded. "It was our... only place. We went to Silent Hill on our honeymoon. It was the last place we... were happy together, before she... got sick." James paused, his body tensing. "I... didn't know what to make of it. What to do. But I had to... try. Even though it sounded crazy, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I couldn't do anything but think about how she was there waiting for me."

Harry managed a nod. "You... didn't find her, did you."

"No," James said, with a bitter laugh. "Not... like I'd hoped."

The two men sat in a silence that was a completely different kind of tense than it had been in the diner. Both stories remained unfinished, the neither man really needed a further outline. They already knew what the other had seen, what they'd been through.

Finally, James murmured, "I think I'd like to take you up on that offer for tea."

\----------

James had a mug or two of tea, a shower at Harry's request, and had changed into an old t-shirt and pair of sweatpants. Harry had already made it clear that he wasn't going to allow James to drive home without getting a good night's rest, and to be honest, James wasn't interested in hurrying back to an empty, lonely house. Harry had been someone to talk to who understood everything James would say, even when he couldn't finish his sentences. The time for talk, though, had passed, and James found himself in Harry's bed once again, the other man having insisted on taking the couch. James hadn't had the strength to really object, and he'd fallen asleep very quickly, despite his desire to stay awake and avoid the nightmares he was sure he would have.

He was standing in a hospital hallway. The hallway was lined with doors that had been boarded up, except for one, at the very end of the hall. James already knew what was on the other side of that door. Somehow, his mind didn't quite register that he was dreaming -- if it had, he might have stayed stubbornly at his end of the hall, refusing to go further. Instead, James slowly took one step, and then another, down the hall, his pace quickening.

When he threw open the door, Mary was lying in her bed, the heart monitor beeping quietly in the background.

James stood in the doorway for a moment, his breathing heavy. Finally, he moved past the threshold and into the room, his eyes on his wife, not letting up to even blink. James sunk into a chair at Mary's bedside. Hadn't he already done this? Wasn't it time to move on? If it had been "enough", then why was James going through this now?

"Mary," he whispered, quietly. She didn't open her eyes, but she spoke, shaky words coming from pallid, heavily-chapped lips.

"James," she answered. "James, you... came to see me."

"Of course," James answered, so automatic he didn't even have time to consider whether he'd wanted to or not. It was just something he said, something he had to say. "I'll always come as long as you need me."

Mary smiled just a little, faintly. "Thank you," she whispered, the words hoarse and hard to hear.

"But Mary..." James paused, trying to find a good way to word what he wanted to say, "you... you said that I should move on with my life. That it was... enough..."

Mary turned her gaze on James slowly, and James instantly regretted what he'd said.

"You... you're saying that you're over me already? That you're done with me?" Her voice was getting louder, impossibly strong for how weak her body was, and James watched in horror as the room changed around him, as the heart monitor disappeared, as suddenly he was in a strange room (looked a bit like a cheap motel) and Mary had become Maria, lying against the bed, her eyes flashing. "You don't need me, is that it, James?"

James was speechless, at first, trying to understand how Mary had changed so suddenly. "Maria," he growled, finally, anger rising, "I killed you."

Maria only laughed. " _Please_ , James," she said, flexing her body in a way James was certain was supposed to be appealing. "You can't kill me." Maria indicated the space on the bed next to her with a small pat of her hand, running perfectly manicured fingernails up and down the comforter. "Why don't you join me instead?"

"I'd rather go to Hell," James answered scathingly, standing up from his chair, wanting to turn towards the door and escape this mess forever. Maria had moved quickly, scrambling on hands and knees on the bed, catching James' wrist before he could turn.

"Actually, I think I know exactly what you'd rather do," she said, mischief evident in her voice. "I think I understand now, why you didn't want me. Why you never took me."

James yanked his wrist away, violently, dark eyes flashing as he glared down at Maria. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're staying in a man's apartment," she cooed, moving so she was spread out against the bed again. "Sleeping in his bed. Wearing his clothes. Do you like the smell of him left over in his bed, James? Does it smell good?"

James stared at her, horror dawning on his face, his eyes widening. "That's- that's not true," he said, quickly, taking a step back. "It's not like that. You can't turn everything around like that, Maria."

"Why not?" she asked with a sort of careless shrug of her shoulders. "You do it, don't you? Or do you think Mary didn't notice the way you would look at her nurses when they came in the room? Maybe her jealousy was misguided... I wonder, James, when did you start playing for the other team?"

"I don't have to listen to this," James growled. "You have no idea what I'm feeling, Maria, you couldn't even begin to understand what I might want..."

"Do you?" Maria asked, and James wanted to answer her, but suddenly, he jolted awake.

Somebody was screaming in the next room. Not just somebody, James reminded himself. _Harry._

Jumping to his feet, James rushed from the room, feeling almost relieved at the familiar spike of adrenaline that rushed through his body. Over the last few days, he'd grown accustomed to it. Throwing open the bedroom door, he moved quickly into the living room, only to see Harry there, already awake himself, sitting bent on the couch, his hands threaded in his hair.

James approached him slowly. Harry didn't look up, but he seemed to know that James was there, and what he was thinking.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I... I didn't mean to wake you."

James was silent for a moment, unmoving. Should he try to comfort Harry, to join him on the couch? He thought of Maria's words and froze in place. Could he... really? Or would sitting next to Harry be giving someone the wrong idea?

Was James really thinking about himself and his image in this moment, when a man who'd practically saved him was stuck in so much grief? Couldn't James stop thinking about himself for just one second and try to focus on Harry? The man was practically devastated, and James didn't even know _why_.

And what did he care, what _Maria_ thought of him?

Crossing the room, James slowly slipped down onto Harry's couch, pushing the crumpled mess of Harry's blanket out of the way before he did. Harry seemed to tense at this, but for some reason, James didn't think it was because of him, specifically.

"...You don't need to worry about me," Harry murmured. "You just came out of all of that. You... are probably having a rough time." Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's just... for the last five years, everything has felt like such a blur. Every night, I have these... these nightmares. But they don't feel like _dreams_. It's all so real... like walking through a door into another world." He leveled his gaze on James, eyes red and full of an expression James wasn't sure he wanted to read. "Does any of that... make sense to you?"

"I... had a nightmare, too," James murmured, a sort of roundabout answer to Harry's question. "About... Mary. About _Maria_." James hadn't explained Maria to Harry, but Harry didn't ask. "Will it always be like this?"

Harry managed a short laugh. "I don't know," he answered, truthfully, his gaze hard on the carpet. "It's like that town... devoured us too."

"Huh?" James blinked towards Harry, not really following what he was saying. It seemed Harry was deep in thought... he had a tone to his voice, a look on his face James knew meant he was probably onto something. James just wished he could follow.

"When I was in Silent Hill, I met a woman there named Dahlia Gilesspie." Harry looked up at James suddenly, hoping the name would mean something to him. When James made no indication that it did, Harry frowned and continued. "She... was the head of some strange religion. A cult. She told me the town was being 'devoured by the darkness'."

"A cult?" James repeated, slightly dazed. "In Silent Hill?"

Harry nodded. "She said that was the reason the town had become what it was. Because it was being sealed away... or something. I don't know... it's all so hard to understand, to take it for me. Even now..." he trailed off. "I hoped that when their god died, it would stop them. That it would seal the cult away and that horrible nightmare. But if you came from there, from a place just like I saw, it must have not worked..."

James frowned. "I didn't see much on any strange religions when I was there," he confessed. "There was some... stuff on a 'Red Devil'..." James shuddered. "Could that be tied in?"

"It could be," Harry murmured. "If there are still traces of that cult, it could be the reason why that town pulled you in. Why it won't let us go, even when we escaped physically."

James stared at the floor, running his tongue over his dried lips. He thought he'd understood the reason why he'd been pulled to Silent Hill -- because of what he'd done to Mary. But how could a town have the power to channel James' guilt? It didn't make sense -- unless there was something there, summoning that power, passing its judgment on the world, one person at a time. "I think I understand what you mean."

Harry stood, suddenly, and James, jarred by the movement, looked up, eyes shooting towards Harry. At this angle, his expression was hard to read.

"I'm going back," Harry suddenly said, determination filling his voice. "To stop it. To destroy what's left, once and for all. My Cheryl gave her life trying to stop the torment there... my Cheryl and... Alessa. I can't let their suffering go to waste."

James shot up onto his own feet, eyes wide. "You... you're going _back_ there?" he asked, disbelief in his voice. "Harry, you... you'll get yourself killed! You can't do something like that!"

"What else can I do?" Harry asked, turning to James. "I can't keep having these dreams. It's killing me." He looked away. "I'm not asking you to come with me, but this is something I have to do. I know you'll understand... you're the only one who could." He put a hand on James' shoulder, squeezing it, before turning away and heading into the bedroom. James stood there a moment, dazed, before quickly following Harry in. The man was in front of his dresser, digging around, clearly looking for clothing.

"Harry, please. Don't do this", James said, standing just past the doorway, looking alarmed and completely lost. He had no idea how he was going to talk Harry out of this -- he only knew he had to.

"I... I've been thinking this, or some form of it, for a few months," he said, grabbing a shirt and digging through another drawer. "And when I saw you, when we talked about that place, I thought... you must be a sign. A sign that I really do need to go back. To keep it from happening again..."

"If anything, I'm a sign that you _shouldn't_ go back!" James said, the alarm beginning to show in his tone. "I don't have to tell you what you'll find in that town, you should already know! I know you didn't forget!"

"I didn't forget," Harry said, firmly.

"I know that," James answered. "So what do you think you're going to find there? Answers? That town can't give us back the things we've lost."

Harry stopped, suddenly, turning and slumping against the small dresser. "Maybe it's selfish," he admitted, slowly, "or for a dual purpose. I... I want to stop the nightmares, but at the same time, I... want to see her. One more time. I don't care what the circumstances are."

James felt his stomach turn. "I... can't argue with that point," he said, quietly.

Harry didn't answer -- he only started to pick out more clothes, getting out a small duffel bag. James watched him silently, anxiety building in his stomach. He could already tell he wasn't going to change Harry's mind -- the man was set in his course of action, just as James had been as soon as he'd received Mary's letter. But the thought of Harry's survival once he reached the town was chewing away at James' mind. Sure, Harry had been in Silent Hill once, but that had been five years ago. Harry didn't look or seem _old_ , but he wasn't getting any younger.

James looked up just as Harry was pulling a handgun out of his sock drawer and loading it. He winced. Harry looked up just as he clicked the chamber back into place.

"If you want, you can... stay here," Harry murmured. "Take care of the place while I'm gone. You... you don't have to, but... just in case you want to... make sure I come back... take care of my things if I don't... I don't have anyone else." He shook his head. "Sorry. That sounds... I guess I just wanted to say you could, if you wanted to."

James tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. It was clear that the strange bond the two men had formed was far stronger than a bond most men would form in only about twenty hours -- and James was certain it was the town that was doing that to them. The... power of the town, just like Harry had been talking about, when he'd looked at James with eyes so completely full of pain that the only similar look James had ever seen was in a mirror.

Mary had said that he'd suffered -- that it had been "enough". But James knew that Harry was suffering, too -- and he hadn't gotten the luxury of having anybody tell him it had been enough, that his suffering and pain should be over. Harry needed someone to liberate him. He couldn't go to that town and really be freed without guidance. He hadn't been able to the first time. What would make this time any different?

And if he could save Harry from the nightmares threatening to destroy him, would that free James from his guilt? Would it be absolution? Would saving Harry make up for what he had done to Mary?

Finally, James murmured, "I'm coming with you."

Harry blinked back an expression of shock. "You... really?" He shook his head. "Don't feel pressured to do something just because of me."

"It's... not because I feel pressured," James said, slowly. He sunk down onto the bed, thinking. "I want to seal it away, too. I want to keep it from hurting anybody else. Including you." James looked up, and Harry was actually _smiling_ \-- a small sort of private smile, his eyes averted to the floor.

"Nobody's really cared about me for a long time," he said, quietly. "Thank you."

There was an awkward sort of silence before James stood from the bed. "Well," he said. "I guess we need to get dressed."

Harry had already retrieved James' clothes and handed them to him. "You take the bathroom, and I'll change in here," he said, quietly, and James nodded, turning to leave, shutting the door behind him.

As he got to the bathroom, he began pulling the set of pajamas off, discarding them on the counter and slipping back into his clothes. He noticed Harry must have washed everything apart from his jacket -- they seemed soft and clean, and he felt somewhat embarrassed that Harry had done that for him while he'd been passed out, asleep. Still, he pulled them all on, stepping out of the bathroom to go to the couch and sit to pull on his socks. Harry was already in the living room, bag in hand, looking dazed.

"We'll take my car," he said, suddenly, and James nodded, settling on the couch and beginning to pull on his socks. As if thinking he needed further explanation, Harry murmured, "old thing's good on icy roads."

"Alright," James agreed, audibly. When he had his socks and boots on, he stood, moving towards Harry. "Do you think they'll tow my car if I leave it in their lot?"

"Huh? Oh, you mean the diner." Harry smiled again. "Don't worry. I had a neighbor drop me off there so I could drive it back here for you. I've got it in my guest space, it won't get towed here."

James, slightly surprised, decided to smile in return. "Well, uh, thanks. I'm surprised you could get the driver door unlocked. Thought I was the only one who could."

"Actually, I had to slip in through the passenger's side." Harry shouldered his bag. "Tried for a while, though." He stepped towards the front door of the apartment, glancing back to James. "Shall we?"

James nodded, wordlessly, and stepped past Harry, opening the door and letting him through. Harry moved into the hallway, James close behind him, closing the door tightly. It wasn't long before the two were out into the crisp, early morning air, making their way through the parking lot. Harry stopped at an older-looking blue and silver Jeep, fumbling with the keys to unlock it. He slipped into the driver's seat, tossed his bag in the back, and reached to unlock James' side. James climbed in just as Harry moved to start up the car. Neil Diamond started up as soon as the car started, a clear indication that Harry had last been listening to it, although James noticed that the car only had a radio and tape deck -- no CD player. Harry quickly muted the volume, looking towards James apologetically.

"Sorry," he said.

"No," James answered, quickly. "Please, it's okay. It's better than driving in silence."

"Alright." Harry turned the tape back on, but dimmed the volume considerably, making the tape more background music than a main attraction. "...You ready?" he asked, softly. James turned his gaze on Harry, watching him, watching an elusive expression in Harry's eyes that James was desperately trying to pin down and identify.

"I think so," James answered, finally.

"Okay. Then let's get going."

The Jeep pulled out of the parking lot and into the dark street. The highway exit wasn't far from Harry's house, and soon, the two were on the main road. James leaned his forehead against the glass window, staring at the lines on the road as they passed by, fast, one after the other, over and over. They were almost reassuring -- something that wouldn't change, the road's heartbeat that would continue beating long after he and Harry were gone. James closed his eyes, focusing vaguely on the soft sounds of "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" (a title James wasn't entirely fond of) floating through the car. Before he knew it, he had fallen fast asleep.

James woke up a couple times during the drive, but didn't fully jolt awake until the two had reached Bangor. Harry was stopping for coffee in a drive-thru, and he'd pulled in to park to wake James up first. Harry's hand was warm on James' arm, and James leaned into the touch.

"James," Harry said, softly. "Hey, James. We're stopping for some coffee."

"Mmm," James hummed in response, and he only woke when Harry shook him a few more times, his head groggy. Feeling dazed, James tried to blink the sleep away. "Oh, god... Are we there?"

"Not quite." Harry smiled, putting the car in reverse and pulling out the parking space, heading towards the drive-thru line. "We're in Bangor. I'd say we have a little less than an hour left."

James didn't say anything, only stared blankly at the fast food menu. Harry looked on in distaste.

"I don't like fast food," he admitted, suddenly, glancing to James, "but if you want something to eat, that's fine."

"No thanks," James said, quickly. "I'd prefer my stomach completely cleared."

Harry looked far away for a moment. James wondered if, perhaps, he was trying to remember the exact stench that accompanied a rotting body, or a dog monster, or anything like that. Finally, Harry unrolled his window and glanced towards James. "Coffee?" he asked. James nodded.

"Please."

Harry ordered two cups, and when they pulled up to the window, James handed Harry the money for both. Harry looked at the cash silently, then grinned towards James.

"I'm not the 'starving artist' too badly," he said. "Really."

"It's okay," James said. "I... have enough."

Harry paid with the money and handed James his cup of coffee. They got back on the highway in relative silence. James tensed as they began passing billboards. They'd just passed the first billboard for Silent Hill resort, followed by another for Lakeside Hotel ("Take exit 264!") covered by a diagonal banner proclaiming "UNDER RENOVATION!". James just stared as it passed.

"Heard that place burned down," Harry murmured, seeming to have taken noticed of the billboard, as well. "Not a surprise in that town. Probably got set on fire on purpose." He frowned. James turned his gaze to Harry.

"...That was mine and Mary's special place," he said, quietly. Harry took his eyes off the road for only a moment, eying James carefully.

"I'm sorry," he said, slowly. "It must have sounded pretty callous." He paused. "When I came to Silent Hill, I met a girl named Alessa. She was just an unsuspecting girl unlucky enough to be born into this crazy world, with a mother who only wanted to exploit her power."

"Power?" James asked, sipping his coffee. He'd ordered the "flavor of the day", a Hazelnut Creme that rushed pleasantly down his throat.

"...It's hard to explain," Harry murmured. "The girl had some kind of gift. Some power she'd been infused with. The cult wanted to harness that power and use it for themselves. They wanted to force that girl to give birth to their sick god."

James was silent, staring straight ahead at the mass of Maine scenery. A light snow was beginning to fall. He couldn't say he really understood what Harry was talking about, but would Harry have any idea what James meant if he tried to explain things like Maria, dying over and over again? Or Maria, existing at all?

"She wouldn't cooperate, though," Harry said, continuing. "So they did some... ceremony, trying to force her power to emerge. They locked her inside her home and burned it to the ground."

James shook his head. Like an urban legend, only... it was real. James trusted Harry, completely. Anyway, who made up this kind of thing on their own? _Writers, maybe,_ James thought, with a bit of amusement after he belatedly realized what, in fact, Harry was. It didn't matter. James trusted whatever came out of Harry's mouth. Harry was the only thing he had in this world. That, James thought, was probably the biggest reason that James wouldn't let Harry go to Silent Hill by himself.

The two talked, quietly -- recounts of their time in Silent Hill, of how the peaceful resort had turned into madness. Harry told James about the drugs, a nurse named Lisa, a doctor Harry hedged on mentioning with much detail, and, with difficulty, a cop he'd had to kill to protect himself. James hesitated most of his story -- he could tell Harry about Angela, about Eddie (even about killing Eddie, and, when he did, Harry took one hand off the steering wheel and touched James' wrist, squeezing it in a comforting way), he even tried to explain the strange woman who looked like Mary, but wasn't. But he cut off, staring out the window, not able to tell Harry anything more, not able to tell Harry about the secret he'd realized when he visited Silent Hill. If Harry knew James was a killer... he wouldn't think anything better of James than he did of this Dahlia Gilesspie, this woman who had tortured and killed her daughter.

James hadn't even noticed when they'd gotten off I-95 and onto ME-11, and it came as a surprise to him when they passed the sign proclaiming "WELCOME TO SILENT HILL". There was a small town welcome center, and Harry pulled into the deserted parking lot, taking the first space.

They parked the car. Harry stared out into the fog through his windshield.

"Well," he said, quietly, "there's no turning back, now." He looked to James. "I... I wasn't sure... if we'd come here and see the town like this, or if it would look like it's supposed to look. But I guess that... you and I are meant for this nightmare." He laughed, weakly.

This time, it was James' hand who went to Harry's wrist, a little lower, gripping the top of his hand.

"We're going to stop it," he said, faking confidence he wished he had, "so nobody else is."

The two sat there for only a moment before getting out of the car at the same time. Harry had his gun in hand, and James wrapped his jacket a bit closer around him. The two men walked side-by-side, disappearing together into the fog.


End file.
